


Fix-it Man

by oonaseckar



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Writer Harvey Specter, computer repairman Mike Ross
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25310125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Harvey's a highly-educated liberal-arts type writer.  When his computer goes down he hasn't got a clue what to do.Enter tech-bod smartie Mike Ross.
Relationships: Mike Ross/Harvey Specter
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

A writer really, really – oh god, so much, so really – needs to back up his files. Regularly. All the time. Every day! Every hour!

Yeah, yeah, everybody knows it too. You get this advice all over. Only an idiot doesn't know it. Harvey has heard it at least a million times, at minimum. And he's good! He backs up his files! Most of the time.

Some of the time. When he remembers, anyway. Actually to be more accurate, he goes through phases of backing up his current documents, at least three or four times a day. And then he can go for two weeks, and never remember to do it once, not even _once_.

To be strictly honest.

And today... Harvey had really good intentions. He's been up since six o'clock, he's walked the dog, he's cleaned house and had oatmeal and caffeinated. And then he sat down and wrote, steady, for a couple of hours, had a break, and started up again.

And then his lap-top – while he'd broken off and stared out the window for a minute or two, struggling in the middle of a run-on sentence, trying to sort out meaning and syntax of too many sub-clauses – had given a weird little _whine._ And then a _sphut_ of contempt. And then, abruptly, died on him.

It doesn't overstate the case to say that Harvey has trouble with computers. Sometimes you'd take him for a senior citizen, or highly intellectually challenged person around them: except that his _grandma_ is a dab hand with her tablet, smartphone and multiple networked pcs. And his _learning-disabled_ cousin, last time he went home, patiently helped him remove a virus and several apps he hadn't meant to install, from his phone.

But he doesn't panic. (Okay, he does. He panics a little bit, he allows himself that much.) He just boots up again. He knows how to do that much! (There was a time he had trouble turning a computer on. But he's not a _complete_ ignoramus. He just has a little bit of fear of technology. He's a writer. He's an _artist_.)


	2. Chapter 2

The cat comes and comforts him in his hour of need. Which is quite sweet, considering she usually expresses her affection through cat-scratches and hisses, when she wants the _gourmet_ catfood and not the cheap crap. It does help a bit as she sits on his lap, purring so his thighs vibrate, while he grinds his teeth a bit and stares at the screen, willing it to come back to life. To behave itself, and be his obedient servant while he pours out innumerable words of immortal prose. Like it's fucking _supposed_ to.

(The dog snores in the corner in its basket, unconsciously chasing rabbits and woofing when they elude him. Fucking useless as a comforter, and incompetent as a rabbit-hunter, even in sleep.)

And then this goddamned evil machine _does_ come back to life. Evidently it's not quite dead yet, he hasn't killed it despite his best efforts. So that's an immense, near-frantic relief, at least for a minute.

It's not the usual screen that comes up, though, not his normal desktop. No, it's a little box that pops up to tell him something. Oh, God, Harvey hates it when his operating system wants to _tell_ him something. Somehow, it never wants to tell him anything good, that's the thing. It never invites him to hang out in Vegas, or gives him the winning state lottery numbers, oh no. You don't catch it wanting to go out clubbing on a Friday night and inviting him along. No, what it wants is things like REINSTALL IMMEDIATELY URGENT DATA LOSS. Or at best, a massive operating system update. Or some nasty feedback on his _magnum opus._

The bastard.


	3. Chapter 3

And now, it's issuing an invitation that's still more alarming. 'OPERATING IN SAFE MODE' it informs him, kindly. And Harvey supposes that that's a good thing. Because it's _safe_ , right? That's about as much as he knows about it, and he's as wise as ever. But being safe when you're using the computer seems like a damn good idea to him. (Especially when it's him using it. Especially considering he's practically phobic about anything that involves online security, any site requiring a secure connection and any possibility of having to disclose personal information, bank or buy anything online, anything involving using his plastic.)

it seems like the trouble is, safe mode doesn't actually allow him to _do_ anything. He can't access any websites, not even any of his own files: The damn thing keeps asking him for code commands he has no idea of how to write. The one familiar thing he can work out how to do, is to turn the damn thing off. So that's what he does.

Forty minutes later, he has worked out how to get _out_ of safe mode, what with some laborious research on his phone, reading the (effing, jeffing, goddamn) manual, and possibly the odd prayer thrown in for good measure. But now, with his regular desktop up and running, he's getting little pop-up signs every two minutes, saying _Hey! You! You've got a bad, really bad, absolutely terrible virus on your computer! It's going to eat the damn thing in about two minutes! Call this number now for one-on-one personal hand-holding and advice while we remotely diagnose your troubles!_

(Harvey might be paraphrasing just a little. But that's near enough the gist of it.) Now, Harvey knows damn-all about computers. But that doesn't mean that he's so green that he doesn't know not to call the damn number. He also knows that he probably _does_ have a virus: just not one that these people are going to help him with.

Any attempt to use the internet redirects immediately to their website, his inbox is packed with chiding emails about how lax he has been about his personal online security (and what he can do about that.) He's too stressed to even begin to think logically and rationally on the subject, and he's becoming aware of it.

So it's better to get someone else in on the job, even if he's theoretically capable of reading up and doing what's necessary himself. (And if he had a couple of weeks to spare to do that, not to mention enough time for the couple of nervous breakdowns involved.)


	4. Chapter 4

Of course the thing to do, given this situation, would be to call around his family and friends, to ask them for advice and recommendations regarding a local computer and technology repair person and handyman. And then to make a list of their suggestions, collate and order it according to scores for efficiency and product knowledge and honesty and price and thoroughness. And then perhaps get a few _alternative_ recs, for fairly near neighboring towns, in case none of these were suitable and... But right now he doesn't have the wherewithal to properly deal with things with that level of organization, that type of attention to fine details.

So he just gets on a computer site, one of the biggest, looks up computer repairmen for his area, and phones the one with the best reviews on the first page of results. The call's picked up on the second ring, and a guy answers it fast, loud, somewhere outdoors. “Yeah? Mike Ross repairs here, anything I can do you for?” The voice is nice: light, brisk. It's matter-of-fact, but somehow warm too. It sounds like someone with a lot on his plate and other things on his mind, but who still has time to listen to Harvey's stupid self-inflicted computer problems, if need be. (Boy, Harvey sure is reading an awful lot into a tone of voice and a nice light baritone. And a 'hello', for that matter.) But he's feeling a bit vulnerable, what with one thing or another. Frankly, anyone with a toolbelt, a cheeky grin, and a working knowledge of every operating system and anti-virus program currently in use on the model of computer he's just trashed, could have him for the price of a latte and a box of doughnuts.

Well, as long as they actually remembered to fix his flipping computer. _First_.

“Um,” Harvey stumbles, first, impressively. “I got your number off of TechAggro? On the internet?” And he stands there in the middle of his own living room, in his stockinged feet with, no doubt, his hair tufting up on top of his head. Because, in moments of stress, he does tend to run his hand through his hair about a million times, all unconscious of any comic effect it has on his general appearance. And now he moves over to the mirror over the fireplace as he talks, to check on his reflection. Yeah, it's standing up like he's a scarecrow with punk rock tendencies, a shock of fairish hair in unruly spikes and waves, and his wide green eyes startled and popping a bit with alarm. Maybe a bit more _mad professor,_ than _punk rocker._ He's stressed, all right? He's stressed. That doesn't exactly excuse his faded band t-shirt, heavy metal complete with horror imagery and peeling transfer, faded to a washed out dark grey where it was once black. Nor the combat trousers that are falling off his ass, what with the weight he's lost the last six months, while he struggles with going full-time with his writing career.


	5. an élite confederacy of nerds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Kathy Reichs. Bones forever!

(It's not that he isn't making enough to eat –- actually, he's doing pretty well, what with his urban fantasy series coming up to its final installment, and getting a regular old-style publishing deal for his cyborg stand-alone. His sales figures are getting pretty sweet, improving month on month. It's just that he never realized how much the tension of writing full-time –- of having to produce the goods, day after day, of the bills and mortgage relying on it, of having to fulfill his artistic vision as a matter of career objectives, not a sweet delightful hobby –- would play on his nerves. He's a little prone to anxiety: and now that he's writing full-time, he's a little _more_ prone to it. It doesn't do wonders for his appetite. Not that he's a bundle of bones, or anything. Just a little leaner than he used to be. Certainly his slightly rounded belly –- that a boyfriend or two has teased him over before now –- is a thing of the past. In fact it's not that it suits him so badly. It's just different. He's not used to being this lean. Not that he's a crab-muscled macho gym-bunny six-foot behemoth, or anything. Hardly – five foot ten in his stockinged feet, and still slight in the torso even with a regular home gym workout on a daily basis. (Which he has plenty of time for, now, working from a home office, hallelujah!) Although his shoulders are decent, built that way by nature. He knows he has his points, aesthetically speaking: he's not totally self-deprecating.)

Anyhow. “Okay, then?...” Mike Ross says, patiently. Harvey really has to salute the patience. It's just that anxiety tends to fry his brain a bit, and there's nothing quite like technology problems to make him super-anxious.

Feeling like the utmost idiot at least sharply jerks his brain into some spurt of semi-functioning. “Ah, my computer's on the blink. So, I got your number, because you fix computers, and...”

Terrific. That's his side of the job done, at least. “Okay, then, _sir_. If you could just fill me in on a few details...” Ross begins, smoothly. And they go on from there. He explains exactly what his computer, the dastardly minx, has been getting up to. He gives Ross his home address, his other numbers, his email address. And they settle an appointment, a time to expect a home visit. It's all done in under ten minutes. Oh, and on Ross's side of the conversation at least, in quite a sexy, lightly husky voice, just exactly to Harvey's tastes. Not that that's remotely relevant. Or necessary, for Ross to be a satisfactory and competent computer repairman.

It's just an added bonus, that's all. And as long as it's not itemized on the bill, when Ross invoices him, Harvey really appreciates it, already. It gives him something else to think about, other than his uncooperative and slightly smoking computer. (Okay, he's exaggerating a bit. He hopes. It hasn't started smoking. Yet.)


	6. Chapter 6

it doesn't really calm him all that much, though. Not considering that he has four hours to get through, before Ross can fit him in. And in the meantime he has nothing to work on, and no other means to occupy himself. (Yeah, he could use a text editor on his phone. Except that he hates trying to type on his phone, one-fingered without a decent keyboard to stretch out on. And no, he doesn't have any other functional computers lying around the place, or networked in with his regular machine. For a technophobe such as himself, one is quite bad enough. He does have a really, really old word-processor, inherited from his mother. But he thinks it probably qualifies as antique, or at least vintage. And he certainly doesn't have any floppy disks hanging around to use with it. Nothing floppy in _his_ household, no sir.)

So what he does do, is totally old-school and traditional. He just forces himself to walk away from the computer –- to leave it be, to stop obsessing until Ross gets the hell here! And then he makes himself a really good cup of coffee, goes into the living room and sits upside down on the couch, with a notebook and a pen. And he writes _that_ way.

Hey, it's the way they used to do it back in the Stone Age, apparently. Or at least, close enough. Maybe involving rather more cave-walls and stones to scratch out drawings of hunters and deer, but the general principle is the same. He's still scratching out symbols and pictures to get his message across, and something about it actually feels quite pleasantly dated and hipster-ish and classic. Oh, and the seating position? Well, that's just how Harvey is the most comfortable: with his legs dangling off the back of the couch, and his head dangling off the seat. Takes all sorts, that's the thing.

It manages to soothe his mind a bit, while he waits. (As do a couple of bowls of icecream and a bag of chips, but it beats beer and tranquillizers, right? And what does it matter how fat he gets, if he can't get access to a computer and the dating sites he usually trawls on? As well as all of his work files, with all of his very much not-backed-up work? 

Then he remembers how attractive and sexy Ross's voice was, during his call. He forgoes a third bowl.)


	7. don't be afraid to be confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is George Saunders, legendary author of 'Lincoln In The Bardo'. The man, the myth, the mental monolith making pygmies of us all!

Well, it's not a completely unproductive couple of hours. Harvey gets... maybe eight or nine hundred words down. And even if he's also going to have to type them up later, it's something of an achievement. And then his phone buzzes, and it's a text message. 'ON MY WAY' it reads, from Ross's number, which he's saved in his contacts. And then Harvey can't be still all over again, but goes and broods over his poor whimpering computer, restlessly roaming around the house for the next twenty minutes until his calves ache, from tramping about and staring out of windows. That's when he's not staring at the computer screen, and fruitlessly re-booting it every so often, with exactly the same results.

And at the end of that twenty minutes, the doorbell buzzes. And it feels like Harvey has never been quite so relieved in his life, as he is now. He rushes and almost trips over his own feet, getting from _a_ to _b_ , from staircase landing to front door, with the least time lost and the most panting eagerness.

Mostly he's overjoyed at the thought of getting his computer back up and running -- to be clear, to be honest. The fact that the _mr fix-it_ he's called in had an awfully nice voice on the phone, is strictly a bonus. And it doesn't count for an awful lot by itself. Ross's website ad didn't include a photograph: he could look like a frog with leprosy, for all Harvey knows. And even if he does, then as long as he knows his stuff when it comes to fixing technology and getting poor rickety ageing old computers going again, then Harvey will welcome him with open arms. Hell, he'll smooch him like he's a handyman Zac Efron, if he fixes the damn thing.


End file.
